Pack
by Alenida
Summary: It's another eventful night in Sunnydale when a botched ritual summons a demon and Oz gets a little unscheduled field-trip during the full moon. Quite fluffy, possibly slightly AU. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Buffies. I just play with Joss's toys.

**A/N: **This takes place sometime during Season 3. It can be taken as something that occurs off-screen or a slight AU. R&R, but please no flames! Constructive criticism is fine. :)

**Pack**

The woods are calling. The smell of rain reaches his nostrils, strong and compelling, snaking through the cracks in the high window. He paces back and forth, cold concrete beneath his paws, harsh and unwelcome. He wants to run free through the forest, the sodden ground beneath his feet, the blood of his fearful prey on the wind. He whines, and one of the creatures comes up to his cage.

"Oh, Oz, don't make noises like that," she says, the words flowing meaningless into his ears. "It's so sad. You sound like a sad little puppy. We would let you out if you didn't have such a bad case of the—people munchies."

"You know he can't hear you, Will," says the one who stinks of grave-dust and rotted food.

"I know. But it makes me feel better, and you never know, maybe he'll start recognizing my voice someday. Like a dog. Having a dog as a boyfriend could be cool."

"I think he's a little too wolfy for that."

"Wolves are pack animals. I'm his pack, right? We're pack-partners. We could be all packy together."

"Are you two going to moon over Wolf-boy all night or do you want to give Giles a hand with his ritual? I don't think he's so happy with me holding down the fort." The deep voice grates on him, the scent causing his hackles to rise. That one is not the alpha. He throws himself forward, but the infuriating bars of the cage intercept him, clashing and rebounding but not giving way.

"Whoa, down boy."

"He hasn't learned _down_ yet, Xander. Or _sit_. Or _don't tear the throats out of your friends_, _Oz_." Grave-dirt again. She doesn't interest him.

"But he's such a good doggy! Maybe he'll figure it out soon." Incense and musk tugging at him when the other female speaks.

"And maybe the moon will turn into blue cheese. Give it up, Will, and come over and help Giles with the stupid ritual."

She stands in front of the cage for a second longer, mumbling at her shoes, "Well, there's that one eye-witness report of blue-cheesage. It could happen."

He huffs sadly. He can't get through the bars, so he lies down miserably, snout on paws, and the moon and wind and earth call to him, a sickening ache within his bones that he cannot answer.

Low chanting, muddled, reaches his ears, along with a copper stink that he doesn't understand. It's not part of his moonlit world, but it makes him nervous. There's a something cold and wrong in the air, something off, something wrong. He has to rise to his feet again, pacing back and forth. He wants to go, to get away. He knows how to face the things that run, that he can chase and kill and eat, but this thing is stalking the shadows of the room, and it frightens him. It's a predator, but it's too big and it's not right. It stinks of copper and dust and old bones, and it's stalking him, but he can't get away. It's stalking them all. He throws up his head and howls a warning, half defiance, half fear, his thin wail of pleading to the silver moon rattling desperately through his body.

"Giles, are you sure about this? There was a disagreement in the text on page 397."

"You may be right, Willow. Perhaps we should stop for the moment. In any case, it doesn't seem to be working."

"You mean because there's no big flash-bang-demon-go-boom moment?"

"Well, yes, approximately, Buffy. There should have been a, hm, moment of revelation, as the text remarks."

It's coming. He backs into the corner of this horrible little prison of stone and wood, his hackles rising, snarling in desperation. Look at me, get away. I'm too big for you. Go away.

"What's Oz growling at?"

It steps out of the place between the winds, and it's there, fetid breath redolent with the stink of death. Go away. I'm not your prey.

It makes a dry crackling sound. _Little man-pup, you can't even think. Why should I suck the life from your wet bones when I can take them instead and leave you to find them in the morning, not even knowing what happens but always feeling that you should have been able to stop it?_

"Um, Giles, is it just me, or is that shadow moving like a bad—like a not-a-shadow? A non-shadow thing? Like kind of a bad, demony thing."

"Oh dear."

It moves forward, and where it steps, the bars of the cage flame up and peel back like paper burning away from a match.

"Oh, I dare you to take another step, Mr.—Shadow-Demon-Monster."

"Buffy, you cannot fight that. Its touch is inimical to life."

"English, Giles?" Not-alpha is scared too, the stink of fear, sweet in prey but souring now because it's come from him as well.

"We have to run, guys! It'll just burn you up if you touch it! Like a bad acid shadow demon cloud thing!"

"See, Will makes sense—oh, we should really get out of here, shouldn't we?"

"What about Oz?" Musk and red hair, panic, protection. The cage is gone, and the way out is no longer barred. He explodes outward, running hard and fast, bursting past the old-bone shadow, running for the moon and the wind and the safety of outdoors.

"I think we should follow him!"

He scrambles, confused, down the slip-slide floor, his claws clicking and scrambling madly. This place is all wrong, too bright and too cold and too still. He runs madly, the fear of the bone-shadow deep inside, desperate to get out, and finally, he barrels through a pair of double doors, across the black hard ground to the grass, and he is in the woods, with the silver light of the moon on his back, and the bone-shadow is behind him, too far behind to chase him. He's safe.

He runs for a long time, tasting the freedom, the smell of wet on the wind, the open blackness of the forest dappled with moonlight singing in his bones. He throws back his throat and howls, this time a call of defiance and escape and the wolf is here. The wolf has returned.

This is his place, but his scent on the trees is faded. An old mutt has tried to put his mark on it, taking a winding trail at the edge of the forest, and he obliterates it when he finds it, raising his leg to put the upstart in his place with his own smell. This is his. A bitch in heat made her way through here four days ago, but he's not interested. She was traveling with her mate and two pups. If they try to settle here, he'll have something to say about it, but the scent is faint.

The thought of _mate_, of _pack_, makes something move nervously at the back of his mind, a touch of emptiness, but he keeps moving and is soon distracted by the rumbling of his stomach. He's hungry. He finds a rabbit, quivering and frozen with fear, too slow to move from his path, and he breaks the neck with a swift motion and devours the carcass, cracking the bones for the sweet marrow, but it's not enough. His stomach still burns with hunger and his limbs with the desire for a proper chase.

He comes to the edge of the forest, prowling along it with a faint unease. He doesn't want to leave his forest so soon after reclaiming it, but ahead of him he can smell sweat-soaked bodies and musk, pounding blood and arousal. It smells delicious, and it draws him onward, out of the dark forest and into the naked, bright light of his moon. He skulks through quiet streets toward the source of the delicious smell. The moon's light dims as the strange yellow lights of the bright human forest brighten. He slides through the shadows. He doesn't like it here as much, because this isn't his, this has the scent and taste of hundreds of others, wolves and dogs alike, and it's alien and he's not as comfortable, but here is where the prey is, and he is the predator, so here he is as well.

As he approaches the smells drawing him onward, the ground begins to shake from loud, pounding noises. He flattens his ears to his head, trying to drown out the jangling, thumping racket, slinking forward a little slower now.

"I'm _great_ with dogs, come on!"

"Dude, the last dog you got close to ran away in terror from your colossal stink."

"That's bullshit!"

Two prey creatures are leaning against the wall outside of the place from which the horrible noise is coming. They smell of sweat and smoke. Smoked meat. A little part inside of him has a subtle appreciation for the concept.

"Look, there's a dog, like, _right_ there."

"Man, that's a stray or something. We should stay away from it."

"I knew you sucked with dogs. You just have to show 'em who's dominant."

One of the prey creatures comes toward him, and he can feel the fierce joy welling up in him, tempered with bewilderment. The prey is coming toward him. It should be running and screaming, so he can chase it and taste its blood on the wind before he tastes it sweet in his mouth.

"SIT!" The prey creature waves its arm at him, and he cocks a head on one side in confusion, panting. Before he can decide what to do, the wind changes, and he smells the cold, dead, wrong bones on it again. The bone-shadow is close, and he is filled with fear again, the confidence of the predator driven out by the desperation of the prey. He yelps and takes off running.

"_Now_ who made it run away?"

He's running aimless and frightened, which is all wrong. He should be cunning and intelligent, but the fear drives him onward, the fear that he's being stalked, that he's being toyed with, the deep, cold fear of the nameless horror-shadow that shrivels and diminishes him. He doesn't even know if it has noticed him yet, or if he's just running blind before a forest-fire. Before he knows how he's gotten there, he is back where he started at the beginning of the night, racing terrified through the slippery hallway, following a scent that drew him onwards, and he didn't even know why or what it was.

He bursts into the cage-room just ahead of the bone-shadow. The smell of incense clogs his nostrils, and he sneezes and turns in circles, confused and scared. One of the prey-creatures is crouched on the floor, a female, her scent obscured by the stench of incense and herbs. She looks up, her eyes widening, her lips moving in a stream of liquid words. He stops, panting, cowering against the wall as the bone-shadow sweeps through the door in his wake.

"Don't come any closer!" She holds a clenched hand over the flame in front of her.

_Or what, little witch? You'll banish me?_

"Um, good guess! So don't make me use this to send you back to your eternal hell of suffering and neverending—hellishosity!"

_There is a werewolf in the room, mortal, and he has your scent. Fear of me is the only thing keeping him from tearing your throat out._

"Fear of you and my—awesome martial arts skills!"

Her eyes flicker to the side of the room and back. No, shouldn't have done that. Don't let your gaze leave the predator. It makes the bone-dry rattling sound again, the crawling whisper of leaves across a corpse. _Maybe you mean you'll be able to shoot him with your little sleepy-gun? This little sleepy-gun?_

Tendrils of cold shadow shoot in his direction, and he flattens himself into the floor, but they reach past him and pull out a black cylinder that makes him think of noises and sharp pricking pain and dulling weariness.

"Uh, _no_? Of…course not."

The cylinder puffs into ash and disappears. _Oh, good. Then you won't have a problem banishing me now, will you?_

The female is shaking, the smell of her fear overpowering even the heavy fug of incense.

_We can still make a deal. I chase your little werewolf out of here, and you let me leave this valley of the sun without molestation. Of course, you'll have to make a binding contract promising to let me leave, or neither of you leave this place alive._

"You—you're pretty scared of this whole being banished thing, aren't you?"

_I think I am proffering a reasonable bargain. I retain my freedom, and you retain your life._

"Okay, I think that's enough evil-villain banter out of you."

He feels the change in her attitude, moving from fear to defiance, and so does the bone-shadow, which surges upward. _No, you stupid little mortal, your lover will kill you and feast on your bones!_

Her hand opens, spilling white powder down onto the flame, and the bone-shadow screams, old and grey and wrong, and for an instant, agony blots out the call of the moon, and he curls in on himself. Then it's gone, leaving him bruised and angry and _hungry_. The female is already up and running. "Ohgodohgodohgod!"

She's too slow, and it's easy to catch her, just a few bounds and she is slammed to the ground beneath his paws. She is screaming, a long, thin wail with meaningless words in it. "Oz, _no_!"

As he ducks toward her, mouth open, the smell of flowers and familiarity cuts through the haze of incense, and he pauses. She lies still on the floor, her hands over her head, and he whines anxiously, pressing his nose into her neck, trying to figure out if the smell is coming from her. It is. She doesn't smell of incense, after all, she smells of flowers and pack and female. It chases away the empty feeling he had smelling the bitch and her pups earlier.

"Oz?" He sniffs down her back carefully, then checks the scent between her legs, nosing her in greeting. "Oz! Bad dog! Bad boyfriend!"

She sits up with a squealing noise and pushes his nose away. He protests mildly, but she holds onto his head. "No! That's impolite and really weird and all awkward and stuff!" She stops, looking at him. "You're—not going to eat me?"

He licks her face. "That was, um, maybe reassuring? The messages there were mixed. Are you saying I am tasty or just that you like me?"

He is tired and bruised and beaten, and he isn't hungry anymore. He just wants to sleep, and he always sleeps in the cage, so he gets up and holds onto her funny-colored skin and pulls her toward it. "Oz, that's my _sweater_. You're going to rip it. Besides, I have to go find Buffy and Giles and Xander and make sure that they're all okay and not still stuck in that basement. No, Oz, I just—I can't."

He tows her over to the cage and pulls her inside, flopping down on his side and pulling her down with him. This is right, sleeping in their den together, warm and curled up. She tries to get up, but he whines and paws at her leg, and finally, she lies beside him. "Okay, puppy. But just for a _little_ while. Then I have to go out and be the responsible one." Her breath is warm against his cheek, and her body relaxes against his, curving against him, soft and vulnerable. She's his to protect, his to hold, his flower-familiar. His mate. He feels her relax against him, her eyes fluttering shut in his encircling warmth, and he huffs and sighs and sleeps.

When Oz woke up, he was comfortably warm, which was unusual. Generally the whole nakedness thing on the nights of the full moon meant that he woke up freezing and instantly alert. Maybe he was forgetting what day it was. He yawned and nuzzled into the warm covers, which had somehow ended up in front of him. Weird.

Something made a banging noise. Was there construction happening again? That would be kind of annoying. "Oh god, I never want to see another sewage drain."

"Oh god, I'm _never_ going to get this stuff out of my _hair_."

Xander? Buffy? He opened his eyes. There was a fuzzy pink mound in front of him, which took a deep breath and stirred as he watched.

"Not to discourage you two from your habitual whinging, but I believe we have more pressing concerns."

"You're right, we have to find Will and—_Oz_?" Buffy's voice rose to a shriek.

"What?" Willow sat up suddenly, and Oz fell away from her. She had been curled against his front. His naked front. He sat up quickly.

"Willow," he said, taking her shoulder, urgent fear clutching suddenly at his insides. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Will, are you all right?" Xander said at the same minute. "Uh." He and Buffy glanced at each other and looked awkwardly to one side.

"No, no, I'm fine! It's fine! It's really all fine! The amount of fineness here is very large!" She looked back at him and looked away. "Oh, um, Oz, you're naked."

He nodded. "It happens." He felt himself relaxing. He didn't know what had happened, but she wasn't hurt. She wasn't hurt, even though she had been in the cage with him while he was transformed and—something had melted open the front of the cage. That was a little worrisome.

"What happened?" Giles demanded. Oz got slowly to his feet, and the librarian handed him a robe. "Here. I keep it for emergencies. Your clothing seems to have got mislaid during last night's adventure."

He took the robe and put it on.

"Well, I—banished the demon. I found the right ritual in Hernschel's _Rituals and Rewards_, volume 4."

"Good for you. That's exactly what I would have expected, Willow. Very good job. But, er, what happened after that?"

"Oh, well, Oz was here, and he, um, he got all sleepy and asked me to snuggle, and I guess I fell asleep. Sorry. Also, Oz, we need to have a talk about appropriate touching!"

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I mean, when inappropriate touching is appropriate and when it's, when it's not appropriate and how it's really awkward when you're, um. And, um. This isn't a good time to talk about this, is it."

"The TMI levels are kinda rising," Buffy put in.

"So, what? Oz suddenly turned into Mr. Snuggly?" Xander asked. "Is this some kind of side-effect that weird shadow demons have on werewolves?"

"Possible, but unlikely," Giles responded. "It is unusual, but not unheard of, for werewolves to recognize their, er, romantic partners while in wolf form."

"You mean I can snuggle with wolf-Oz now because he is all snuggly and inappropriate with me?" Willow asked eagerly.

"Er." Giles looked pensive. "It's unclear. I don't think we ought to be throwing caution to the winds just yet. There is very little extant research on the subject, and we don't want to risk you being injured."

"You like research," Oz pointed out, squeezing her shoulder, because he could see she was starting to droop a little.

"That's true! I do like research! Particularly research involving my very own Mr. Snuggly Wolf!"

"Am I getting a new nickname?"

She punched him lightly on the arm. "How about Mr. Keep-Your-Nose-to-Yourself?"

"I'll just leave you two alone," Xander said. "I need a shower, anyway."

"Oh god, me too," Buffy moaned.

"Could somebody bring me some clothes?" Oz asked. "Hard to go to class without those."

Willow giggled and leaned against him.

"I'll get you something," Giles said. "I'm sure I can find a few things in the Lost and Found."

He, Xander, and Buffy split off, heading out of the library.

"I'll wait with you," Willow said, and he smiled and kissed the side of her head, her cheek.

She turned and kissed him, wrapping her arms around him. She smelled of flowers.

"Hey, you fit," he said, affecting surprise, before kissing her again. He usually woke up on the nights of the full moon restless and aggressive, but today he was calm and happy. A strong sense of belonging washed over him. This was right.

This was…family. In the back of his head, the wolf slumbered, content.


End file.
